


If There Is Evil

by PreseaMoon



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2432294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreseaMoon/pseuds/PreseaMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does one reconcile with being a monster?</p><p>Frequently one doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If There Is Evil

**Author's Note:**

> I finally got around to reading what’s been translated of DRRR!!SH and I really really like Yahiro. I wanted to write about him immediately. I look forward to his future development and interactions so that I may write him in a fuller fashion.
> 
> I may have wanted to try my hand at writing some violence also...
> 
> I do not know if there is any specific tag I ought to add to indicate this as SH, but I will concern myself with that later.
> 
> It is not necessary to have read any of SH to understand this.

The boy’s fist struck as if controlled by someone other than the relatively small body it was attached to. To the bystanders each successive blow was little more than a blur accompanied by the telltale crunch and crack of bone meeting teeth. Blood splattered, shards of teeth flew like sparks only to be lost in the grass surrounding them.

The boy whose face was half pressed to the dirt was not from Akita. In fact, most of the bystanders to this event were not from Akita and were here for the very same reason as the boy whose face was nearing something close to disfigurement. Yet even with seeing the gruesome scene before them, a scene that, if asked they would be unable to explain exactly how a thirteen year old achieved bringing down a boy over a head taller than he to the ground, they were not dissuaded from their objective. It was as though each and every one of them believed they would be the exception to the small boy’s violence, a boy who, upon seeing him in action, they could no longer think of as a fellow human being, but as something akin to a monster, just like the rumors promised.

Blood splashed with each slam of the boy’s fist, which showed no signs of slowing. The larger boy’s wrist was twisted at a painful angle and weighted down with a knee, grinding the bones together. A knife was just out of reach, brushing fingers that made no attempt to pull it closer. A heel dug into the boy’s spine, threatening to dislocate it. The boy’s other wrist was held in a lock that looked less painful than the other, but it left his arm at an awkward angle, like it’d pop out if he moved the wrong way or tried to free the limb.

The small crowd watched this transpire without guilt, without fear, instead filled to the brim with anticipation to be the one to finally finally put the monster in threadbare human skin responsible down, thereby proving their mettle and strength.

But as this went on and their comrade on the ground continued to not move, his eyes closed, feet still, and the monster ravaging him continued to show no sign of fatigue, a wave of unease made its way through the onlookers. Ever so slowly, as red speckled the grass like a rain of blood and the crack of bone meeting tooth devolved into a sick squelching, they realized that the monster housed inside this thirteen year old had no intention of stopping.

If they did nothing, the boy would surely die, this they now knew with certainty.

That fact sank in, taking root in their minds, and the crowd grew still. Their immobility was pierced only by the monster’s steady assault. Each strike caused a collective flinch worse than the last and they couldn’t look away.

One member of the crowd snapped and ran forward, mindless, his metal pipe held overhead as he gave a battle cry.

The monster, sensing the attack, spun as it neared and grabbed the pipe with an exceedingly fluid motion and pulled the attacker to him, slamming their heads together hard enough for vision to flicker. Though the monster was apparently immune to the blow, for while his new target was dazed he pulled the leg out from under him and stomped on the back of the boy’s knee when he fell, eliciting a short yelp that sent shivers down the remaining boys’ spines.

The monster did not grab the pipe, grabbing instead a nearby stick and jabbing it over and over into the boy’s back, working his way up to his nape, where he did not stop. He went until the stick snapped from his force, and then he moved on to the next challenger.

All of this horror and more the monster performed with a face devoid of all human emotion. And when he was done, hands trembling slightly from either adrenaline or fatigue and coated in blood that wasn’t his, he left just as expressionless. Without a word or glance to any of the bodies lying around him he simply went home.

But this lack of emotion wasn’t quite what the onlookers took it as. For the monster was, in truth, only a terrified thirteen-year-old boy.

 

The boy everyone believed to be a monster was named Mizuchi Yahiro, and Yahiro could not make any sense of why he was attacked in the first place. 

He understood the anger they felt well enough, the righteous fury burning in their eyes at seeing the merciless damage he did to others, some of whom they likely considered friends. To some degree he even understood their fear, but how was it they failed to see the immense fear they struck him with in return?

These things did not add up, and Yahiro, the only one among those who fought to be called a monster, was left at a loss.

He did not know where the line dividing human and monster was, or if those two things were on the same spectrum at all. He did not understand why he was the only one considered a monster.

After all, he would not attack them if they did not attack him.

As an orphan, he supposed there was no real proof he was human anyway, but he did not think that made him a monster.

Yahiro did not think his lack of birth parents made him a monster, but he had no proof either way. Even if he did, he did not think it would make a difference.

Yahiro washed the blood off his hands with a hose behind the inn. The blood was caked and dark, mottled across his skin like dye, staining him. There were flecks of white among the red centered at his knuckles, and at first he was filled with the unsettling dread that it was the white of his bone. But as he stretched out his hand some of the flecks loosened and fell to the ground, revealing punctures that oozed fresh blood.

He stared at the self-inflicted wounds he’d attained, the only wounds that had been given to him that day, the only sort of wounds he ever received, and wondered if the fear he felt towards those who attacked him should be directed at his own hands. 

They did not ever vibrate with the fear that thrummed through his blood and set it afire. They never moved in time with the frenetic energy that bounced trapped in his mind, the incessant repetition to get the fear away, as far away as possible, out of sight, out of mind, away away away from him before it swallowed him whole and spat him out as something else entirely.

Just recalling the incident—the numerous armed delinquents who tried to hurt him—he was filled with terror so potent he could barely breathe.

“Yahiro? What are you doing?”

Instinctively Yahiro dropped the still running hose and kept his hands behind his back as he turned to face his mother. And then he pulled out his hands to explain. There was still blood outlining his nails and his knuckles were raw. He hadn’t got to the rivulets that made it to his wrists yet, either.

His mother took his hands in hers and ran over them carefully, like they were something delicate and precious. She was especially thoughtful where his skin was reddest, barely touching it in case it would sting.

Yahiro watched her sad expression as she did this and was overcome with guilt.

“Are you okay?” his mother asked with genuine concern, because she was his mother, and just because her son had not been hurt any of the dozens of times prior to this incident, it did not mean he was invulnerable.

Yahiro took a breath but then settled for a nod. Clear water pooled at his feet and seeped through his shoes, muddied the dirt and suctioned around him. Neither of them paid attention to it.

She let out a relieved breath, holding on to his hands firmly. “I’m so glad. Did you go to the police?”

Yahiro shook his head. He knew he should—though the delinquents might not have bothered—but having police reports filed so frequently was draining. They were all variations of the same thing, how Yahiro was defending himself, scared, how there were numerous attackers with blades and pipes and that no, he’d never seen them before. Just as his hands were stained, so too was his record. He did not know if his actions being classified as justified self-defense made any real difference. He found he didn’t particularly care whether it did or not anymore.

His mother sighed. “Well then, let’s wait for them to call while we patch you up.”

The bandages his mother wrapped around his hands were constricting and bright. Curling his fingers in made them tingle. Every member of the family could tie bandages expertly; no one could years ago, at the start of their son’s rise to infamy. That it was a task they could now perform unconsciously was a source of immeasurable guilt for Yahiro.

The damage done to him was superficial at most; they knew that. But bandages were still applied because it was an expected, normal thing to do. When children were bleeding the injury was treated and wrapped. So that’s what the Mizuchis did, and Yahiro loved his family for it in spite of his accompanying guilt.

 

Several days later Yahiro was once again approached, though perhaps ambushed was the more accurate term. His hands were mostly healed but he continued to wear the bandages his mother had done and he thought he’d have some peace for a while.

There were no familiar faces in the group, or at least he didn’t think there were. All their gazes carried an unfathomable amount of rage that quite frankly came off as inappropriate when directed at a boy who’d only just started his second year of middle school.

The small group of less than ten made a circle and closed in on him. They trapped him like a mouse or a cat they believed would run away the second an opening was made. In fact, Yahiro had once tried to run and the results were no different.

The circle tightened.

Yahiro’s heart tightened with it, knowing their minds would not change and there was only one unavoidable way this would end.

Three delinquents charged, one from the back and one at each side; Yahiro reacted instantly. He struck the arm of the delinquent at his right side, altering the angle and causing the switchblade wielded to slice into the arm of the delinquent behind him, who was reaching forward to choke him. Smoothly from this action Yahiro took a diagonal step back, under the arm with the blade, and placed it into a lock while the last boy’s momentum sent him colliding with the boy who’d been slashed.

Yahiro stepped on the calf of the boy he held, forcing his knee to give out and him to fall, but he did not relinquish the arm, instead yanking it upwards as the delinquent flailed in an attempt to regain his balance, which made the boy cry out sharply in pain. Before flinging the boy at the other attackers, Yahiro extended the arm and struck the elbow as hard as he could with his palm, bending it the wrong way with pop that had the boy screaming at the top of his lungs.

There were sharp intakes of breath from the crowd at the scream, followed by murmuring. The boy who’d had the knife fell to the ground unconscious. 

The two remaining opponents glared fear driven hate at Yahiro. From their lips the word _monster_ was snarled. They said it first as astonishment, and then it was spoken again, louder, a shouted accusation for the world to hear and judge him for his crimes.

The crowd chanted it, seeming to close in further around them when they hadn’t moved a single step closer. Their words carried, echoed, and were carried away on the wind, passing Yahiro on their way.

_Monster._

_Monster!_

_That thing’s a monster!_

And in response to this, all Yahiro could feel was pure terror. 

“Come and get me, you monster!” shouted the delinquent whose arm had been cut. Said arm hung useless at his side. Blood soaked the sleeve and dripped from his fingers to dirt. “Come on!”

But Yahiro did not move.

The delinquent moved in. So did Yahiro, who easily sidestepped the messy attack and jabbed the boy’s throat with his fingers. After which he delivered a punch to the side of his head that sent him to the ground, where Yahiro kicked him. First the injured arm and then the boy’s stomach, Yahiro drove his foot into him again and again, only stopping at the impact of something hard and heavy against his shoulder.

The last boy watched him, shaking but trying to hide it, and held up another stone. When Yahiro took a step forward he took a step away.

Yahiro was not looking at him but at the stone he held, the threat.

“St-stay way! Don’t come any closer, monster!”

The stone left the boy’s hand and Yahiro caught it. He sent it back with ten times the force. It hit the boy right in the head, knocking him out immediately. With that taken care of, Yahiro turned to the remaining crowd. The delinquents comprising the crowd tensed and drew up their arms, not knowing which of them would be next but anxious to aid in putting down this monster in any way they could.

Because none of these delinquents knew anything about Mizuchi Yahiro beyond his being considered a monster, they did not realize walking away was a choice. They did not even realize that Mizuchi Yahiro did not want to fight them at all.

And Yahiro, standing before them with _monster_ ringing in his ears, did not realize what exactly made him so monstrous.

 _Monster_ lingered at the back of his thoughts and worked its way into the crevices of his mind. He started to wonder if you became a monster when everyone believed it to be so and thought that tragically unfair.


End file.
